The Stars Walk Backwards
by nowforruin
Summary: It's only supposed to ever be one night, but before they know it, it's a doorway in Paris, and an apartment in San Diego, and a blinking low battery light in Maine. Emma knows she needs to let Killian go, but there's always that one day a year she can't seem to stay away...
1. Chapter 1

**June 19, 2001**

It happens because she's afraid, and he's sad, and they've had far too much to drink between the two of them because Ruby Lucas swiped her grandmother's vodka and spiked the punch.

Again.

"You sure, love?" he whispers, and it's sort of a pointless question because her dress is already hiked up over her hips, his breath warm on her throat. But still, she's not entirely, because she's leaving, and he's leaving, and no good will come of this, but she _wants_ to, so she nods and pulls him back down.

They fumble together, two teenagers caught up in a moment, a flash of time that could mean everything but is destined to burn away with the morning fog. It's not her first time, and it's not his, but it's their first time _together_ , and they probably shouldn't be doing this, in an empty field or otherwise, but god, Emma _wants_ this, wants him, if only for a night. For one night, she wants to know what it is to be the center of Killian Jones' entire world, because they're still kids, but she knows she'll never meet another man like him.

They're eighteen, and they barely know what they're doing, all instinct and impulse grinding into each other in the bed of his brother's truck with a sky full of stars above them. The night is warm, the Maine air bathing their skin in summer when they curl together after, his breathing ragged and her heart hammering in her chest. He kisses her again, slow, lingering, like he misses her already, like this is the beginning of a story and not a footnote.

"This isn't goodbye, love," he murmurs against her hair, clutching her close and staring up into the night sky, and they've only been whatever they are for a few weeks, but there's gravel in his voice. "I will bloody well see you again. We'll find a way, Swan."

"Don't," she warns, squeezing her eyes shut against all the promises he won't be able to keep. She never should have left their going away party, never should have let him wrap her in his arms in this secluded, painfully romantic spot when she told him weeks ago she just wanted to have fun before she left. "I'm leaving, Killian. I won't be back anytime soon, and you're moving to California. We're just having fun, remember?"

His fingers work their way into her hair, and he's silent, but she can hear him thinking, hear the wheels spinning, and she struggles not to say anything else, not to remind him that they have this one beautiful night left together. They should make the most of it, not ruin it with a pie in the sky dream she's too realistic to believe in.

"If you get tired of the Peace Corps, Liam will always let you stay with us while you figure it out," he finally says, but she hears the sadness creeping back into his voice, and she's never been one for tearful goodbyes, and she's not about to start.

So she kisses him to shut him up, and she keeps kissing him until he stops saying anything intelligible, and she forgets they'll soon be thousands of miles away – forgets that tomorrow, he'll help his brother load up the truck they're in with all their possessions and drive them clear across the country. Liam's the only family Killian has now, and Liam got transferred to San Diego, so off they go.

It's not like he can tell the Navy no.

And Emma...Emma isn't going to college. She's not cut out for that life, books and studies and academics. She feels caged in enough by the sleepy Maine town she finally ended up in, despite all the love her foster parents have given her. She doesn't want to stay and work at the diner or end up David's deputy – she wants to see the world, and the Peace Corps will give her that.

They don't talk about how dangerous it may be, that she doesn't necessarily get to choose where they send her. That some of those places aren't safe for women, and definitely not young, blonde, American girls. But Emma has been scrappy her whole life, and just because she's spent the last six years in Maine doesn't mean she's forgotten any of the lessons she learned being shuffled from one group home to another. Most kids grew up with cartoons on Saturday mornings, but Emma had the streets to keep her company.

She'll be fine. Kilian will be fine.

 **June 19, 2002**

The world is a much different place than it was when she left. When the world watched two towers turn to rubble and take thousands along with them, it took weeks for the news to reach her in the remote village she landed in.

Her first thought was of Killian and his brother, and Liam is in the military, and what does it all _mean_? By the time summer rolls around, she still doesn't have an answer. The few letters that have made their way to her are always weeks old, and it's been a month since the last one. Killian has said nothing of his brother beyond the news of his deployment and Emma is too terrified to ask.

She requests time off. She gets it. Her parents are more than happy to foot the bill to fly her halfway around the world, to home. And it's good to be back in Storybrooke, even if she has been traveling for two days to get there, even if she can still taste the dust of the dry plains and empty riverbeds. Even if traveling by plane has become an exercise in imagining horrors she'd never dreamed of when she'd left.

They drive past the marina, and she looks for Liam's truck by habit, only to realize the brothers Jones are still thousands of miles away. Her heart aches in that moment, because she misses him, and she wasn't supposed to miss him, the boy with the blue eyes and soft accent. They weren't supposed to be friends, weren't supposed to be _anything_ after that night under the stars.

Her mother probably gave him her address. She doesn't know how else he managed to get a letter to her at the ends of the earth, but he did. It's never earth-shattering news. He tells her about California and the endless sunshine and beaches. He enrolled in classes at the community college and taken a part time job at a bar washing dishes. In every letter, he says he's happy, and she wants to believe him, but all the letters carry that same note of melancholy she kissed away a year ago.

"Are you sure you want to go back?" her mother asks the next night when Emma hasn't been in Maine for a full forty-eight hours and she's already restless. She asked for this trip, the chance to come home, but whatever it is she's looking for, it isn't in Storybrooke. Maybe it isn't anywhere.

Maybe it's in San Diego.

But she doesn't say any of that.

"Yeah," she tells her mom, her eyes on the ocean beyond the dock they're strolling along, the breeze keeping the summer night from being oppressive. She hasn't been in humidity like this the last year, and she's forgotten how it clings to her skin. She's forgotten the brine of the ocean on the air, the slap of the waves against the hull of the ships tied up along the dock. "I have to."

"Baby, there are other ways to see the world. Safer ways. Things are different now." Mary Margaret takes her hand, and it almost works, the pleading and the fear knotting into a lead ball of guilt in her stomach.

But she can't stay here, and where else would she go? She can't show up in San Diego. A few magical weeks and one perfect night and a handful of letters isn't reason enough to change her entire life. So she takes a deep breath, plasters a smile on her face, and tells her mother that she's happy in the Peace Corps. She's doing good work, she's learning new languages, and she's not the college type.

Her mom squeezes her hand and nods, turning away, but not quickly enough to hide the tears in her eyes. Emma is the worst human being on the planet, because she pretends not to see that she's made her mother cry, and they turn back toward the loft in silence.

"I almost forgot," Mary Margaret says as they climb the stairs, an odd note in her voice. "Killian Jones asked me for your mailing address. Did he write to you?" And Emma knows her mother didn't forget a thing, because Mary Margaret has been rooting for them since the first day Killian and his blue, blue eyes arrived in town. Emma realizes then that her mother has been waiting, holding onto this topic until she thought she could find Emma in an honest mood, and it almost works.

"Yes." Emma swallows hard, squeezing her eyes shut only to be met with a flash of blue set against a backdrop of stars and fireflies.

"He left a phone number with me if you'd like to talk to him while you're back." The offer is a little too hopeful, a little too pleading, and Emma nods stiffly, because now she gets it. Her mother thinks there's something more between her and Killian than there is, and she's hoping a boy will keep Emma from running back off to a place with sporadic electricity and no indoor plumbing – a place where when it seemed the world as they knew it was ending, it was weeks before Emma could be reached.

Still, she takes the slip of paper, shoves it into the pocket of her jeans, and tries to ignore it as she indulges herself with fried food and ice cream and all the things she can't get in that remote village. But on the very last night, when she should be packing, she pulls out the phone number instead, the ink faint from her constantly running her fingers over it, but still legible in her mother's neat print.

She takes the cordless phone into the bathroom, turns on the tap to drown out her voice as much as she can, and dials the number with shaky fingers. He doesn't answer, and she leaves a long, rambling message filled with false cheer on the answering machine, not quite knowing when to shut up and desperately wishing she did. She ends by thanking him for his letters and apologizing for being a shitty correspondent, and then apologizing for swearing on his brother's machine, and she probably shouldn't have called, but, well, she's leaving in the morning and…

Emma hangs up before she can make an even bigger fool of herself.

The phone rings in the middle of the night, and she hears her father's groggy voice as he answers. It's probably just a call to come deal with Leroy, put him in a cell to sober up like David has so many other nights. But then her father's voice changes, sleepy confusion gives way to annoyance, and then he's slowly walking up the stairs. "I doubt she's awake," she hears him say, and it's a threat if she's ever heard one, but there's only one person who would be calling for her in the middle of the night, and she can't turn him down no matter how murderous David sounds.

Her father eyes her suspiciously when he hands over the phone, his brows knit together and his lips pressed into a thin line. They'll discuss it on the long drive down to the airport, she's certain, but for tonight, she mouths _thank you_ and takes the phone.

She holds it to her hammering heart as she listens to her father's steps move away, her eyes shut tight. But finally, she can't put it off any longer, and she whispers a _hello_ into the phone that feels a year overdue.

They talk until sunrise, their voices hoarse from the hours of stories. She tells him about her travels, and he tells her about learning to surf, about his job, about his classes. There's so much to say, and not enough time to say it all, and when the first rays of sunlight peek over the horizon, he promises to keep writing, and she promises to answer.

She doesn't say goodbye, because she still doesn't do tearful goodbyes, and damn him, it's just one night, but the thought of hanging up makes her throat tight. She has no idea when she'll hear his voice again, no idea when she'll return, or where he'll be, or how she'll find him. "Send me a picture of the beach," she says instead, the last words she has to offer before she hangs up and stares down at the phone in her hand, the low battery light blinking at her like a beacon to a home she never asked for.

 **June 19, 2003**

She meets August Booth in the Corps. He's older and ruggedly handsome, with a wandering soul and a sense of adventure that calls to her own. She ditches the remote villages and takes him up on his offer to go to Paris, where they live in a one room apartment in a six floor walkup in a dodgy part of town.

Emma doesn't care. She picks up French quickly enough, her pride forcing her to continue on even when she stumbles over the words. Before long, it gets easier, and August helps, mostly by whispering dirty things in her ear when they're in bed. It's one way to learn, and she doesn't really mind.

With Paris comes internet access, and Killian's letters turn into emails, and occasionally, if they're lucky enough to catch each other across all those miles and timezones, IM chats. He was attractive as a boy in Maine, but the years of the California sun have been kind to him, and as he grows into a man, there's something ruggedly handsome about him, too. Emma doesn't show August the photos Killian still periodically sends, him grinning with Liam with palm trees behind them, the waves, the beach at sunset.

It takes her far longer than it should to admit she hasn't moved to Paris alone, and when she finally does tell Killian about August after retyping her IM message fifteen times, there's a lengthy pause before he responds with a simple _are you happy_.

Then it's her turn to hesitate, because she thought she was happy, but there's something about the fact that it's Killian asking that makes her hesitate. She's not _unhappy_ in Paris – she came for the adventure and because she was getting tired of not having running water, and she likes August.

She tells him she's happy. He changes the subject.

Killian doesn't warn her when he shows up in Paris at the end of June, a sheepish smile on his face when he knocks on her door, a beat up leather duffle bag hanging off one shoulder. "Miss me, love?" he asks with a smirk that doesn't completely hide his uneasiness, his palm hanging off the back of his neck.

The last two years fall away, and he's the same boy who smiled at her in Granny's. "Killian…" She breathes out his name, suddenly grateful August is out writing in a cafe. It's mostly her work that pays the bills, leading tour groups of Americans around the major attractions, but August swears he'll make it up to her once he sells his book, and she doesn't really believe him, but she's living in Paris, and he's decent in bed, and so what if he doesn't have A Plan?

Emma sure as shit doesn't have plans beyond her evening, and even those look like they're about to change.

All thoughts of August fly out of her head as Killian drops his bag and hauls her against him, his arms strong and his body warm, and somehow, after all this time, his skin still smells the same as it did on that summer night. "I missed you, Swan," he murmurs against her hair, his grip still tight, and he holds her for far longer than he should, but she doesn't make an effort to pull away.

"How...you didn't tell me...what are you doing here?" she finally asks when he releases her, unable to meet his gaze. He knows about August. He knows that him showing up on her doorstep won't change that she lives with another man, that no matter how excited she is to see him, he shouldn't be here.

But after all their emails, and all their late night, far too honest IM chats, Emma doesn't care if they're playing with fire – maybe she'd like to just watch the city burn.

Killian shrugs, scratching behind his ear and turning pink. "I, well, the thing is…" He laughs, shrugging again before leaning down to grab his bag. "I've been saving a bit since you told me you were moving here, and I just thought…" He stops again, fiddling with the strap of his bag. "Liam said I should have told you first, and I see now that…"

She shouldn't kiss him to shut him up. Not now. Not with the years and miles between them, not with August's notebooks and socks strewn around the apartment at her back, but she does. She launches herself into his arms, and she grabs hold of his shoulders, and she kisses him until some form of sense returns. "I'm...I'm sorry," she stammers out, rubbing her lips and straightening her shirt, her pulse throbbing under her skin. "I shouldn't have...August…"

"Should I go?" he asks quietly, shifting his weight. She can't look at him, but she can feel his eyes on her, heavy and pleading and _damn it_ , she can't send him away. August will hate it, but she doesn't care.

"No. I'm glad you're here. We just can't…" She finally looks up, meets that deep blue stare and forces herself to look him in the eye. "We can't," she repeats, hoping it comes out as firmly as she wants it to, and it doesn't, but he nods as he steps into the apartment.

He stays for the week, and he tags along on her tours. She pretends she doesn't notice the tension simmering between them, pretends that he doesn't look away every time August touches her, pretends that he didn't come halfway across the world to see _her_ in spite of knowing she was with someone.

Pretends that in spite of having been here for months, in this city that sighs with romance on every breeze, Emma feels more cherished, more cared for, in the five days she spends with Killian than any single moment with August. She's never been a big romantic, never really believed in true love or any of the other starry-eyed dreams of young girls in safe places, but when Killian reaches for her hand as they walk down a moon-dappled lane his last night in town, she wonders if maybe that's all about to change.

And for a second – for one precious second – she wonders what would happen if she asked him to stay. If she walked away from August, who is safe because she doesn't love him, never will love him, and asked Killian to stay, could she find the romance of this place? Could they carve out a life for themselves here?

But she can't ask him. He's in school, and his brother is half a world away, and she has August. It's not fair to anyone to ask Killian to stay, so she untangles her fingers from his and pretends not to notice the sadness creeping back into his eyes.

"Perhaps next year you could come to California," he suggests as she walks him to the train station to catch his ride to the airport the next evening, her hands firmly shoved in her pockets. It's a warm night, and it's not Maine with an endless expanse of stars and crickets chirping in the night, but the air still wraps around them like a cozy blanket. They're on a sidewalk in a busy city, and the traffic and lights are bright around them, but for a brief moment, there is no one else.

"Maybe," she whispers, and she almost means it, but it'll never happen. She doesn't have the money for a plane ticket, and there is no way in hell she'll ever accept one from him. Still, she smiles up at him, and says, "I would love to see the beach."

"It is quite lovely." Somehow his arm has come around her shoulders, and she's leaning her cheek against his chest as they walk. It's awkward and she should move away, not let him touch her so much, but she doesn't want to. He's about to get on a plane and fly far, far away, and this shouldn't have happened this time, and it won't happen again so she might as well enjoy it while it lasts. "You'd like it, Swan."

"I'm sure I would," she says, and that part she means.

He kisses her before he gets on his train, not the fierce, needy kiss from when he arrived that she blushes when she thinks about, but a brush of his lips against her forehead that for all its gentleness wrecks her like no other kiss she's ever been given.

It's many hours before she's able to return home.

 **June 19, 2004**

She doesn't go to California.

August suggests Thailand, and he tells her about the beaches, and Emma agrees in a heartbeat, despite a lingering doubt as to whether they're leaving Paris because they want to, or because August has gotten himself in some sort of trouble.

Still, it's a good change, and she finds an internet cafe to email her parents and Killian from. August doesn't ask where she disappears to, and she doesn't ask how they pay their bills, because there are no American tourists for her to parade around here.

But when she begins to pick up the language far faster than August, Emma Swan realizes she just might have found one of the few things in life she is good at.

She isn't the only one to notice.

She _does_ notice when they start following her, and at first, she is nothing short of terrified. She doesn't ask August a lot of questions, and there's a reason she doesn't, a wrongness about him she's never wanted to see. She doesn't love him, not really, but they work, and she's in Thailand, so what does she have to be upset about?

A woman and three men following her seems to fit the bill.

When she turns to confront them, they melt into the shadows, and Emma is left standing in the middle of a busy market, heart pounding and blood running cold despite the oppressive tropical heat.

The next time, they approach her.

They offer her a job.

She accepts.

She says goodbye to the beach, packs a few things she cares to keep, and gets on board a military plane bound for Virginia. She doesn't ask what happens to August, but from what they've told her, he deserves it, whatever it is.

Still, her first thought when she steps back on American soil is of Killian and that kiss they shared a year ago. If she'd gone to California, what might her life have been? Different, certainly – she doubts she would have ever set foot in Langley. But she didn't go to California, and it's probably better that way, because it's not just her life that's changing.

Killian has always loved music, but it's only in the last year that he's grown brave enough to start playing open mike nights at local bars. He was so excited about it the first time he emailed her to tell her he'd signed up, so nervous he nearly threw up in the alley outside the bar. But as the months go by, his nerves fade, and he talks more and more about his music, about the friends he's made and the band they've put together.

The last email she reads before her life changes in a moment, they're getting ready for a show that's rumored to have studio reps in the audience. He's so excited, and nervous, and she wishes him well in her reply and means it. If Killian does find success as a musician, it's definitely better she isn't there, distracting him, holding him back.

Because it may have only been a few weeks, a night, a phone call and a surprise visit, but she knows that Killian Jones could become her entire world if she let him – and he would make her his.

Still, she asks then and there what the rules are when it comes to revealing her new job to the people she cares about. She hasn't figured out what she'll tell her parents yet, because if Mary Margaret hadn't been thrilled about the Peace Corps, there's no telling what she'll say about Emma's decision to join the CIA.

But Emma is already thinking about how to tell Killian, because for all the unsaid things between them, and for all the miles, the one thing they don't do is keep secrets.

 **June 19, 2005**

Emma misses his college graduation.

She's not sure where she was. Maybe it was the dead drop in Prague, or was it the op in Hong Kong where she got to put those defensive driving skills to use? The cities have started to blur together, one task after another. They've mostly been giving her easy assignments, low risk missions as she learns the ropes, but she knows it's only a matter of time before she ends up deep in a war zone.

Liam is already there.

But she never did find the right way to tell Killian about her new job, replying to his questions with vague, non committal answers. And it's not that she outright lies to him, but she never really explains herself.

Instead, when she hears there's a transport heading to San Diego, she impulsively hops aboard, calling from the airfield to request leave. Since she doesn't have anything pending, leave is granted, and before she knows it, it's her turn to knock on his door without warning, a battered bag hanging off her shoulder.

She doesn't stop to consider the possibility he won't be alone, that just because he hasn't mentioned a woman, there isn't one. He's Killian. Women must fall all over themselves.

It's only when he opens the door and he's clearly alone that the thought occurs to her, and she is selfishly far more relieved than she has any right to be.

"Emma?" He stares when he opens the door, taking her in. She looks a little different now, her training toning the muscle in her arms and removing the last of the baby fat from her cheeks. Her hair is longer, too, and bleached from the sun where it hangs over her shoulder in a messy braid.

He looks different, too. His jaw is covered in dark stubble, the lines firmer, his shoulders broader. But his eyes still capture her the moment she looks into them, a deep, endless pool of blue she could happily drown in.

"Did you miss me?" she asks, an echo of a question from an open door in Paris, and when he curses and reaches for her, she goes. His embrace is everything she remembers, but stronger now, his body harder, something just a little bit _more_ in the way he wraps her up and holds on just a little too long.

"Bloody hell, of course I missed you," he murmurs against her hair, pressing a kiss to her temple and releasing her from his embrace. "How long are you in town?" He shifts his weight, a telltale blush creeping into his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

"Five days leave, and then I'll catch a ride on the transport heading back."

"Leave?" His brow furrows, and he runs his eyes back over her again, notices her spine is straighter, her stance firmer. "Did you...have you...bloody hell, Emma, Liam is already over there and...there's a war on!"

"I'm not military," she says softly, laying her hand on his forearm and squeezing lightly. The truth might actually be worse, but in for a penny, in for a pound. "I didn't want to put this in an email." She gestures for him to sit, and he does, and he listens as the story comes out. August and the weapons he was trading in, the operatives who recruited her, her apparent talent for languages, Langley, the bits and pieces of the last year she can actually share, all of it.

By the end, his expression is unreadable, but if she has to hazard a guess, it's somewhere between terror and a curious kind of loss, and maybe she shouldn't have told him with Liam floating on an aircraft carrier in the middle of the whole mess. But when she's done, he takes her hand, weaves their fingers together, and asks very quietly, "Are you happy?"

He's asked her that before, and this time, she doesn't hesitate before she nods. He kisses her knuckles, and there's a moment, a moment where something else lingers between them, the heaviness of his stare brimming with so much more, but then he grins and asks her if she'd like to hear the song that's going to make him so famous, she'll hear about it wherever the bloody hell they send her next.

It's the first time she's heard him sing, and she tries not to read into the lyrics, tries to tell herself it couldn't possibly be about her, this song so filled with love and longing and the pain of heartbreak – but there's this _look_ Killian gives her as he plays an acoustic guitar, and she knows it's going to happen before the final chord has finished vibrating through the strings.

She shouldn't. She has nothing to offer him. She loves her job. She finally feels like she belongs somewhere, this job where she's no one and everyone. She doesn't know what country she'll be in next week or the week after that. Maybe she'll just be in Virginia, but she can't take that chance.

She doesn't ask if he's seeing someone. Doesn't want to know.

But she's helpless when he kisses her, and it's like Paris, and it's not, because this is stronger somehow, more intentional. She flew across the country to see him, and he's flown across an ocean to see her, and however they got here, it's going to have to end.

"This…" she manages to get out even as she settles in his lap, her thighs splayed wide to cradle his hips between them. "This...it doesn't mean…"

"I know," he says, and whatever melancholy note she thinks she hears fades away as he turns his attention to stripping her out of her clothes. It's been years since they did this, and there's a flicker of jealousy running rampant in her veins, because obviously he's had some practice, but then again, so has she.

There's no fumbling this time. Killian drags his tongue across the sensitive spot below her ear, and his low chuckle as she shivers drives away any other thought. Yes, he definitely knows what he's doing now, nipping and tugging and teasing until she's panting in his arms, desperate and needy, and when he's finally inside her, she closes her eyes and gives herself over to all of it.

"I'm still leaving in five days. This doesn't change that," she makes herself say later, much later, when they've made it to his bed and lay beneath a tangle of sheets, catching their breath and still wrapped up in each other. "I can't…"

He's silent, his fingers faltering in the slow strokes he's been trailing down her back. But then he sighs, and she can hear the false cheer she can't see when he says, "Better make it a good five days then, love."

She closes her eyes when he kisses her so she doesn't have to see all that longing reflected back at her.


	2. Chapter 2

**June 19, 2006**

She's been gone for two months, embedded with a SEAL team tracking a high level asset across deserts and mountain passes before finally cornering the bastard in a cave high in the rugged mountains dividing Afghanistan and China. It's a relief to be back in her DC apartment, to just be Emma Swan for a few days, especially after the exhausting debrief that began almost immediately upon landing.

She turns on the radio as she gets undressed, hoping that music will help her stay awake long enough to scrub the sand and grit out from under her nails. It's the first hot shower she's had in weeks, and despite her exhaustion, she wants to stand under the scalding water until it runs cold and luxuriate in the sheer pleasure of not bathing from a bucket of cold, dirty water shared with the rest of the team.

And then she hears Killian's voice.

Emma freezes, her hand on the shower curtain, the spray beating down on the tiles, and turns to stare at the small speaker perched on the vanity countertop. It takes her a moment to place it, but it's that song, that damned song he'd sung to her sitting on his brother's couch with an acoustic guitar and so many promises in his eyes.

The song he said would make him famous.

Shower forgotten, Emma turns off the water, wraps herself in a towel, and logs into her personal email account. There wasn't internet in most of the places she's been the last two months, and even if there was, nothing in her personal email mattered enough to go through the trouble of finding an internet cafe to check it. Her mom's cheerful updates on the school bake sale weren't going to help her focus on the task at hand, so she left that part of her life back in DC.

She left Killian back in DC, too, or San Diego, or wherever he was these days – locked him and those five days by the beach up in a lead box and shoved it all to the back of her mind where it couldn't touch her. But hearing his voice shatters that control – hearing his words sung back to her on the local radio station, she's suddenly back in the small apartment he shares with Liam, the ocean crashing beyond the windows at two in the morning while she watches Killian sleep and wishes things could be different.

It takes a few minutes to sort through the hundreds of emails, but eventually she finds herself staring at the dozens that are from Killian. He emailed her every few days, and as she skims through the notes, her fingers brushing her lips, her chest tightens with longing. He's happy, living in Los Angeles now, and his band is taking off. Liam is still in San Diego, and thankfully back from his tour, unharmed.

He writes about how fast it had all happened, the recording, the release, the promo machine of a major label behind them. It helps they already have songs ready to go, him and the bandmates he found during all those open mike nights. His emails contain a note of wonder, a childlike glee at the unexpected success he's found in music, the camaraderie with Will and Robin, the outlet to express himself.

Except there's one that's different from the rest, a melancholy missive that chokes her as she reads the heartfelt, almost pleading words recalling their five days together a year ago. The fact that it's time stamped in the middle of the night leads her to believe it's the most honest of all the emails he sent, that perhaps he was drinking – the typos lend credit to the theory – but she forces herself to read every last jumbled word.

He admits he wrote the song about her, for her, and that as they get ready to go on tour opening for a huge band with a massive audience, he wishes she could be there. That he misses her, and he knows they agreed to just those five days, but maybe they could have five more, or even one more, and he knows he doesn't really have the right to ask, but it's what he wants.

And she shouldn't, but Emma ignores her racing heart, closes her email and opens another window, typing the name of Killian's band into the search engine and quickly scanning the results. Within seconds, she's looking at a listing of tour dates, and _there_. He'll be in Boston tomorrow night.

Emma buys a ticket.

But she doesn't call him until she's in Boston, exhausted from the drive and the too-little sleep she managed before setting out. She's learned to control her reactions, to compartmentalize her emotions, but those skills fail her as she stands outside his hotel, her pulse frantic and her thoughts racing.

She's a CIA operative. It wasn't hard to figure out where he was staying.

Emma pulls out her cell phone and shakily dials his number from the lobby, ignoring the voice that says she's making a giant mistake. She shouldn't be here, shouldn't have come after him like this, because he's going to think it's a romantic gesture and it's not. She just wants to give him the thing he asked for in the middle of the night, wants to be at his show, and, quite selfishly, she wants one more night with him, too.

One more night before his career takes him to places she can't follow, before success and fame open doors she can't walk through. They have no future together, the spy and the rock star in the making, but they have whatever this night is going to be, and the memories of a sky strewn with stars, and a dawn with the crash of waves washing over them.

And that's enough, because it has to be.

"Emma?" She hears the surprise in his voice, the way his breath catches. "Are you...is everything all right?"

"I'm in Boston," she whispers, doubt stealing her voice. "I, uh, I just got back last night, and I read your emails and I–"

"You're here?" If she surprised him with her call, she stuns him with her location, and she breathes a little easier at the sheer joy in his voice. "Love, that's bloody wonderful. I have a show tonight, but I'd love to–"

"I know," she cuts in, gripping the phone so tightly she's afraid she might break the plastic into a hundred tiny pieces. "I bought a ticket. I heard your song on the radio."

"If I had known you were going to be here..." He hesitates, and then his voice lowers, as though he doesn't wish to be overheard. "Where are you staying? I'll come to you, if you wish."

"That's the thing. I, uh, well, like I said, I only got back last night, and this was all very last minute…" She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes to the busy lobby. "I'm downstairs. I was hoping...I thought maybe I'd stay...well, with you."

And there it is, the offer hanging between them, and Emma swallows hard as she hears him suck in a surprised breath. He gives her his room number in a ragged jumble of syllables, and as she gets on the elevator and watches the floors fall away, she shoves aside the niggling certainty that this is a terrible idea.

He's waiting for her when the doors open with a ding, leaned up against the opposite wall in a pair of snug jeans and a faded black shirt that clings to his toned chest and biceps. With every year, he only becomes more attractive, growing into his strong jaw and smoldering stare. But he freezes when she steps off the elevator, and the desire she catches but a glimpse of morphs into concern, his eyes sweeping over her in evaluation rather than appreciation as he curses under his breath.

She's a fool for thinking he wouldn't notice the dark smudges under her eyes, the hollowness of her cheeks. She's lost weight the last two months, and her eyes have gone hard, and she's been stateside for almost twenty four full hours but she knows she's still tense, waiting and watching. They all came back half-starved and paranoid, sneaking and skulking through the dark and rationing what they could for those months, because the two week mission went on far longer than it was meant to. But she doesn't let herself think about it, doesn't really _want_ to think about it, because it doesn't matter. She did what had to be done – they all did – and in the end, the mission was a success.

Except it does matter – to Killian.

"Where the bloody hell were you?" he asks, and there's anger in the question, a simmering, barely-constrained anger that she doesn't expect from him, and can't place. He wasn't angry two minutes ago, but now his shoulders are high and his jaw is tight enough to snap bone.

"You know I can't tell you," she says when she realizes he's waiting for an answer, his shoulders rigid and his hands fisted at his sides. This isn't the welcome she expected. This isn't why she came. And the longer he stares at her, the more she realizes what a colossal mistake she's made, because even if she got the welcome she wanted, the bruises and scrapes that have become so much a part of her job she barely notices them, well, Killian is sure as hell going to notice if they end up naked.

"I shouldn't have come. I'm sorry." She turns to go, to get back in her car and drive back to DC, but she doesn't make it a single step before Killian is there, spinning her around and cradling her cheeks in his callused palms.

"Stay." The word is choked, and there's a sheen to his eyes, a desperate, terrified sheen, and Emma has to look away. This is why she shouldn't be here – this is why she told him they could only have the five days last year and meant it.

So she should go. She should turn around, get back in the elevator and go back to DC. Forget that Killian Jones wrote a song about her, or taught her constellations in a dark field in Maine, or made her pancakes in a sun soaked kitchen with a view of the sea. Forget that he stood next to her at the top of the Eiffel Tower, his shoulder and hip bumping hers, and though he hadn't said a word, Emma heard everything.

But for all her strength, she can't seem to summon the will tonight to walk away. "One night," she says, forcing herself to look him in the eye, to believe it. "I mean it, Killian. This is the last time. One more night, and then we have to stop. You deserve someone who...it's not fair to you." And it's not, because she is still no one, a ghost, a spook, and he's on the verge of being someone.

He'll always be someone, to her.

"Let me worry about what's fair." He drops one hand, tangling his fingers with hers and smiling at her in that soft, hazy way that steals her breath. "We have soundcheck in an hour. Let's get you settled."

Emma nods, because she doesn't trust herself to speak when his easy affection tightens her throat, and she follows him down the hall and into his room. It's small, and it faces the alley, and she can't help but wonder how much is going to change for him in the next year, because she knows this is only the beginning.

She wonders where she'll be in a year, _who_ she'll be.

She wonders if they'll have the strength to stay away from each other, even though she probably already knows the answer.

"Are you hungry?" he asks, suddenly awkward as she enters the room, dropping her bag onto the edge of the bed, trailing her fingers over the soft comforter. When she turns back to him, he's got one hand in his hair, nervously mussing the soft, dark locks and trying very hard not to look at her. "I could order room service."

"Kiss me," she says instead, tilting her face up as she drifts closer, swept up in their current and not bothering to fight as anticipation floods through her. No, she shouldn't be here, and she shouldn't be doing this, but she is, so she might as well enjoy it. There's no telling what tomorrow will bring, and she's going to savor the night she has with him, because it's the last one. It should have been a one time thing all those years ago, it was _supposed_ to be a one time thing, and it's not fair to let him hope for something more by continuing to show up.

But she'll worry about that tomorrow, because now, now Killian is kissing her, and all the memories she held onto, the images and feelings she pulled from the recesses of her mind while she lay in the dark, holding her breath and praying the universe was on her side, they're here and now.

Time slips through her fingertips as he kisses her, his fingers nimble and quick as he undresses her. She waits for the admonishment, the questions, because she knows he must see the massive bruise on her hip from being slammed into that cave wall, the still-healing slash across her ribs where she barely avoided a much more serious injury from a knife, and all the other nicks and bruises and healing scars she didn't have last time. And he does see them, his breath sucking in through his teeth, and he falters in his hurry to get her out of her clothes.

She opens her eyes to find him on his knees between her thighs, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. Their gazes lock, and he starts to say something, but then he stops. He stops and he drags his eyes over her body, taking it all in, and exhales slowly. His hand shakes as he reaches for her, a delicate, hesitant touch tracing the edge of the yellowing bruise. "You're careful?" he asks, his voice raspy and strained, but his eyes stay on hers, intense.

"I know what I'm doing," she replies, which isn't the same thing, but it's all she can offer him, because the truth is, she's not always careful. The stakes are too high to always think about her safety first, and sometimes, the mission doesn't go as planned. She has to improvise, and she doesn't take risks for the sake of taking them, but she doesn't think Killian would agree with her assessment of the situation. "I'm good at it, Killian. I finally feel like I belong."

He mumbles something, something that could be _you belong with me_ , but it's lost as he wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her up into his lap. His kisses consume her, the rasp of his stubble against her skin and the sting of his teeth soothed by his tongue as he works every nerve ending into a tightly wound state of pleasure that hovers on the edge of too much. His name is a benediction on her lips by the end, her fingers tight in his hair as his tongue flicks between her legs, until he finally, finally curls his fingers, sucks hard and her entire world explodes.

He kisses the inside of her thigh as she comes down, a trail of damp, hot kisses that make her hips jerk as sensation after sensation overwhelms every nerve. "To be continued," he promises, his voice a low growl, breathless, and Emma's thoughts are too muddled to connect the dots as he rolls off the bed and stands, his jeans straining against the obvious bulge.

"What?" she finally manages to ask, sitting up as he tugs a clean shirt over his head. "You...you're...what?"

He chuckles, his grin full of satisfaction as he glances at her with pride. "I see I've rendered you bloody speechless, Swan. A man likes to know he's done well."

She flushes, but that doesn't answer her question. "Why are you getting dressed?"

"Soundcheck, love, remember?" His smile turns rueful with a glance down at his tight jeans, and he exhales slowly, a look of intense concentration on his face as he runs a hand through his hair. "I need to be downstairs in five minutes, and that is not nearly enough time."

Emma raises an eyebrow, glancing at the clock. "I disagree." She's selfish, but not _that_ selfish, and she's missed watching him come undone almost as much as she's missed the things he does to her. Sure, they have the rest of the night, but she wants him _now_ , still caught up in a haze of lust that overrides the pervading sense of guilt she's had since she got in her car.

He shakes his head, leaning down to kiss her. "Not to do it properly." His thumb brushes under her eye, a sweeping, tender touch before he kisses her forehead. "Stay here and get some sleep. I'll come back to collect you before the show, and after…" He lets the promise hang heavy in the air between them, trailing his fingers between her breasts down to her navel, grinning when she shivers. "Well, if there's only tonight, darling, you should know I have no intention of giving any of it up to sleep."

He puts a good face on it, but she hears the sorrow lurking behind his playful smirk.

Exhausted as she is, it's easy to sleep even with Killian still on her tongue, the scent of his skin on hers. And it's even easier to slip into the shower with him when he returns, to lean her head against his shoulder as he holds her under the hot spray, his mood shifting from his earlier passionate desire to something tender and far more terrifying, his grip on her almost desperate, as though if he can just hold on tight enough, she won't be gone in the morning.

And when he's on stage, and she's standing there, watching from the wings with Robin's wife and Will's girlfriend, she closes her eyes and lets his voice wash over her, lets his promises disguised in song lyrics spin a future so real she can almost taste the Sunday morning pancakes.

But then she opens her eyes, and she sees the crowd, and she hears their voices singing the words back to him, and she knows she can't keep him. She has nothing to offer, no place in his new life, not that she had a place in the old one, either. She will only hold him back, and he deserves far better.

The sidelong glances she receives from his bandmates only proves it. Robin is better at pretending to welcome her, his smile more genuine, but Will radiates hostility despite a whispered, harsh exchange with Killian that Emma suspects she wasn't meant to see as they walked off stage.

She's not sure she can blame them. These two men have become his friends, and if she's honest, were she in their shoes, she probably wouldn't like her either. She's the woman who broke Killian's heart, who left him writing pleading, desperate emails in the middle of the night. It's impossible to know what he's confessed deep in the bottle with his mates, but from the open disdain in Will Scarlet's eyes, it isn't hard to guess.

Still, she clings to him through the night, pretends that this one night is a beginning, not an end, just like she did all those years ago. They doze despite their efforts to remain awake, but one of them wakes and reaches for the other in blind panic, an eye on the clock and the horizon, knowing their time is finite.

But when the dawn comes for them, he doesn't beg her to stay, and she's grateful for it. There's an inevitability to this thing between them, a thread that connects them across miles and time, and no matter how tightly Emma tries to close that door, the thread will always be there, sneaking under the threshold. She knows it, and he knows it, and it doesn't matter how many times she tells him _just this once_.

"I'm so proud of you," she whispers as they hold each other, her bag over her shoulder and her jacket already pulled snug around her. "You're going to go so far, Killian."

"It's all for you, love. Surely you know that." Their eyes catch, and it's one of the most honest things he's ever said to her. He pushes a lock of her hair back behind her ear, and he kisses her cheek and he smiles that sad, half smile that haunts her for weeks. "One day, darling. One day it will be our time. I'll wait."

"Don't you dare." She takes a shaky breath, stretching onto her toes to kiss him one last time to lessen the sting of her harsh retort. "Live your life, Killian. That's what I want for you. Be happy."

He nods, and for the first time in all the years she's known him, it feels like he's lying to her.

 **June 19, 2007**

She only has herself to blame.

After Boston, she shuts herself off from Killian, from anything she feels for him, from any future he seems to think might one day be theirs. Emma Swan isn't ever going to have a white picket fence life, and that's what Killian deserves. Happiness and a woman by his side to share in his successes, to be there for his failures, to be a partner.

Emma is never going to be that woman. What kind of life could they build together, anyway? She won't give up her job for him, can't be a spy and a musician's girlfriend. And even if she could, what sort of life would it be? She can never tell him anything more than the barest details about her job, can't tell him where she's going, can't speak to him for long stretches of time, can't share her fears or her successes.

So she lets him go.

And when she looks at her watch, and it's June 19th, she aches for him, but she doesn't pick up the phone. It's been months since they've spoken, no emails, no texts, no calls – not for lack of effort on his part, but even Killian grows frustrated when dozens of emails and calls and texts go unanswered. It breaks her heart a little more each time she deletes another message, but things are messy enough in her heart since she's come back from Boston. All it takes is one close call when her mind wanders to Killian in the middle of an op, and she banishes all possibility of a future, even a cobbled together shell of a future, from her mind.

But she still can't let him go completely, and maybe it's her way of punishing herself, but she keeps tabs on him. She follows his career through the magazines she sees in airports and on newsstands. She buys his band's album, and she listens to the songs that break her heart all over again, but she doesn't reach out to him.

She owes him that much.

Besides, she's a hundred miles from nowhere, and the sat phone is only for emergencies. _Real_ emergencies, not a moment of weakness where it feels like her heart is shattering into a million pieces because today is their day, and she doesn't know where he is, or what he's doing – or who he's with.

She steps out of the tent where the rest of the team is huddled together around steaming coffee and strips of beef jerky, her breath misting in the cold mountain air. It's almost July, and it should be warm, but it's not, and it's just one more thing that doesn't feel right. It's quiet – _too_ quiet – and the thick layer of snow blanketing the slopes and scraping jagged peaks as far as the eye can see absorbs all sound, leaving behind an almost eerie hush. Above her, the thin air reveals a spectacular view of the night sky, and Emma stares up at it, traces the constellations that are wrong, too, and hears Kilian's lilting accent in her ear, whispering stories of another time, another world.

And she wonders what would have happened when they were eighteen if things were different, if she followed him to California and took a chance, if Liam wasn't transferred to another base, if they stayed. What might have happened if he was there that first year when she came back for a week, when she was so lost and confused and didn't know what the hell she was doing.

She went back to Storybrooke looking for _something_ , but the only time she was truly at peace was the night she spent talking to him about nothing and everything, her eyes closed and his voice washing over her. What if it hadn't been a conversation, but a night like the ones in San Diego, or the one in Boston? What if she'd gone back to Storybrooke and found home in Killian Jones?

The answer is simple. He never would have been in that bar, at that open mike night, when the talent recruiter was in the audience. He'd never have the career he has, the success and the fame and the money.

And Emma would have been trapped in a small town. She'd never have traveled far and wide. She'd never have learned the languages, or met the people, or saved the world.

But standing high in the mountains, snow crunching under her boots and the stars blurring the longer she stares, she wonders if either of them would have minded.

 **June 19, 2008**

The phone rings at four in the morning, and Emma snatches it up as she rolls out of bed, already moving toward the bathroom. Calls at this hour usually mean she has maybe ten minutes before a car is waiting to take her to the airfield, and she's gotten it down to a science.

Shower, dress, grab the jump bag and go.

Her hand is already reaching for the shower dial when the voice on the other end of the line registers. It isn't the calm, collected voice of her director instructing her on the particulars of a time-sensitive assignment, but a ragged, choked British accent that slams into her so hard her knees buckle.

"Killian?" she whispers, dropping her hand from the shower and sinking down on the edge of the tub with a thud. "Are you...are you all right?"

"No." He breathes heavily into the phone, and then he says, "Nothing is right. Everything has gone to shit without you. None of it _matters_ without you." Except he's drunk, and the words all run together, and it takes her a minute to work out what he's saying.

"What happened?" she asks, because from what she's seen, _everything_ is going right. His band is hugely successful. Every time she sees him on the cover of one of the grocery store tabloids, he's got one model or another on his arm. She hears his voice on the radio around the world, and she thinks of that acoustic guitar and the way he looked at her, and she closes her eyes, because she stopped being that girl a long time ago.

"It's June 19th," he says, as though that explains everything. And it does, because last year when she was in the mountains, she would have been happy for a bottle of liquor to forget herself in, but she settled for the biting cold instead to numb any lingering weakness. It didn't work. "Where are you?"

"DC," she admits, bracing her elbows on her knees and curling into herself. Last year she didn't have a choice about this day, didn't have a way to communicate with him, _couldn't_ call or go to him. This year, this year she kept looking at the calendar, kept ignoring the approaching date as though somehow she could pretend that it wasn't significant, that after their silence last year, they've finally somehow quit each other.

"I'd hoped you'd say that." She hears a door open, the murmur of voices on the other end of the line. "Text me your address."

"You're here?" Her heart stops for a minute, then stutters back to life, hammering against her ribs so hard they might splinter. He can't be here, can't be in DC. She's not prepared to see him, not prepared to rip out the stitches in her chest and crack it open for him again.

"Aye."

"Do you have a show?" she asks, but she already knows the answer.

"No."

And she wants to ask the next logical question, the _why are you here then_ sitting on the tip of her tongue, but they both know he can only be in town for one reason. "We shouldn't," she says instead, biting her lip even as her skin tingles in anticipation, and her chest tightens because no matter how much she tells herself she doesn't, she _misses_ him. "You've been drinking, and I'm…" She trails off, not knowing what to say to adequately describe her existence these days.

"I don't bloody care. I need you." He laughs, drunk and hurt, and maybe a little bitter as he says, "It's our day, love. The world gets the rest, but this is ours, and I…" His voice cuts out, choked, and then he very softly adds, "Just give me one bloody day a year. This day. Last year...I don't want to do that again. I can't, Emma."

She texts him the address, quickly scanning her apartment for anything she needs to lock in the safe hidden in the floor beneath her couch, but for all the mess of unopened mail and takeout containers and empty water bottles, Emma knows the risks of her job and there's nothing to find. She shoves her jump bag deep into her closet, prays the world doesn't need her for the next twenty-four hours, and waits.

The Killian she finds on her doorstep is not the man she expects. She expects drunk from how badly he slurred his words on the phone, but this Killian has been into more than liquor. He's lost weight, his eyes sunk into dark shadows and his lips pale and cracked.

He sways on his feet, and tears spring to her eyes, because he's falling apart right in front of her, and she doesn't want this for him. _This_ is why she's kept her distance, why she let him go, because he looks at her as though she's a storm on the horizon, and he'd like nothing more than to be hit by lightning, damn the consequences.

"Killian…" she whispers, and he collapses into her arms, his face buried in her hair, and the deep, shuddering breath he takes nearly cleaves her in two. Emma closes her eyes, and they stand in the doorway, clinging to each other, until the shock of his appearance gives way to the realization he's still half in the hall. And it takes some coaxing, Killian's inebriated state not helping matters as either the drugs and liquor, or his overwhelming emotion, refuse to loosen their tight grip on her, but eventually she shuffles him into the apartment.

It's midday before he's approaching sober, his eyes bloodshot and his mouth pinched with what has to be the pain of a massive headache. He takes the pills she offers, drinks the water, and stares up at her as she runs her fingers through his hair, his head pillowed on her thigh.

"I called last year," he finally says, taking her free hand in his and pressing a kiss to her skin. "I know we said Boston was the last time, but…"

"I wasn't here." She smiles sadly, shivering with the memory of the cold, barren mountain. "I was...in the mountains."

He nods, and he doesn't ask which mountains, and it's a relief, because it's getting harder to not answer his questions. She _wants_ to tell him about the barren wastelands and the strange beauty of those empty, remote places; she wants to tell him about the people she meets, the people that she wants to save and all the reasons why she keeps putting this job, this duty, above everything else.

Above _him_.

But she can't tell him that so instead she asks, "Do you remember that night in Maine?" It's been years since she's been back, but it's all there for the taking in her memory. The scent of pine mingling with damp grass and the brine of the ocean, the leather of Killian's jacket, and the endless, quiet night around them.

"Aye." He squeezes her fingers, and his lips curve. "I think of you every time I look at the stars, love."

"Last year...in the mountains...there were a lot of stars. It was beautiful." She leaves it at that. She doesn't tell him she was in the wrong hemisphere, that the constellations were _wrong_ because they weren't the ones he showed her – that the starlight reflecting off the snow was ethereal and otherworldly, and all she could see when she looked at it was the moonlight in his eyes.

He hums his agreement, and they fall silent again, so much to say and nothing left to be said. At some point, she ends up tangled in his arms on the couch, her cheek pillowed on his chest as he holds her. By some unspoken agreement, they don't kiss, and though she wants it, she's grateful they didn't open that door when the ringing of her phone breaks the silence.

And she almost doesn't answer it, almost tells herself it's _one day_ , and something is deeply wrong in Killian's heart, but that's the problem, isn't it? She _can't_ be the woman he deserves, can't ignore the call to spend the next week soothing his hurts and pretending they have a future beyond snatched moments.

It takes her eight minutes before she's standing in front of him, twisting her hair into a quick braid as he stares at her in wonder, something like pride mixed up in all the loss. "Be safe," he says, and when he gathers her into his arms, he holds on just a little too tight for a little too long, and it's a doorway in Paris, and an apartment in San Diego, and a blinking low battery light in Maine all over again.

"Stay as long as you like." It's not the answer he deserves, but it's the only one she has as she shifts her bag on her shoulder. "But don't wait for me, Killian. I don't know when I'll be back."

He nods, and she turns to leave, but he stops her, his arm banded around her waist as he pulls her back and kisses her, the kiss she craves and dreads, because nothing has changed and the moment his lips are on hers, it all comes rushing back in vivid, screaming color.

"Next year, Swan. Next year I want one day. _This_ day." His voice is gravel in her ear, desperate, clawing need, and she should say no, this ends here, we _can't_ , but she's weak when it comes to him.

"Okay," she whispers, and then she's gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**June 19, 2009**

She hopes he'll forget, that life will sweep him away and her impulsive, guilt-ridden promise will be just another missed moment in this crazy life of theirs.

There's no reason to cling to this one day, after all. She's seen the photos of him with the same woman for months, the way that woman looks at him with adoring eyes and a happy, easy smile. They look good together, Killian with his rockstar attitude and the cute actress with the rich chestnut hair and short skirts.

He deserves to be happy, but when he reminds her in January that she promised, and if she needs to request leave, she had better do it now, she puts in the request despite the fresh flood of guilt. She assures herself that come June, it won't matter, because he'll be somewhere with the actress, and she'll take herself to the beach. Or something. She won't be the woman who helps him throw away what appears to be an actual, healthy relationship for a sandcastle on a fault line.

But two weeks before the nineteenth, she opens an email while killing time waiting in her hotel room in Rio to find a flight reservation in her name. It's a one way ticket to an island in the West Indies, and the only other thing his email says is _I trust your passport is in order_.

Emma types ten replies before she gives up and closes her email, cursing to herself as she drops her head into her hands. What the hell is she doing? She can't go running off to an island with him. She promised one day. What the hell does he think he's doing with the one way ticket?

And what about the actress?

She can't go. Then she backpedals, decides she'll go, but nothing will happen. They're still friends, after all. Since he showed up drunk on her doorstep, they've resumed their usual correspondence, though he's never mentioned the actress, and she's never been brave enough to ask.

Still, she isn't prepared for the sight of him when she steps out of the tiny airport into the oppressive heat, the deep blue of the sky reflected in his eyes. He looks good, relaxed even, in a pair of shorts and a sleeveless shirt that highlights the definition in his biceps. And his smile when he catches sight of her – a pure, radiant smile – weakens her resolve in an instant.

"I was afraid you wouldn't come," he admits as he takes her bag, his palm on the small of her back the only thing she can think of as he guides her toward a waiting car.

"I almost didn't." She bites her lip, grateful and disappointed all at once when she gets into the passenger seat and his touch drops away. "What's with the one way plane ticket?" she asks as he settles into the driver's seat, slipping a pair of dark glasses over his eyes. "It was supposed to be a day, Killian."

"It was five days, once. Twice, actually." He's trying to be confident, but Emma has gotten very good at reading people, and she sees the twitch in his jaw, the way his lower lip thins as he sinks his teeth into it. "You requested more than a day's leave."

"You can't know that." He's right, of course. She requested the whole week, knowing that the one day with Killian, the one _night_ with Killian, would leave her floundering in a sea of her own emotions and all the what ifs. But the extra days were for recovery, not to dig herself into a deeper hole.

He chuckles, and despite the dark glasses, she can feel the weight of his stare as he glances at her. "I know _you_ , darling, as much as you believe otherwise." He shrugs, turning his attention back to the road. "If you want to leave tomorrow, I can get you on the afternoon flight."

"And if I don't?" she asks very quietly, her heart hammering in her chest as she devotes a great deal of attention to picking at a hangnail.

"I was hoping you would say that."

She opens her mouth to ask what, exactly, he has planned, but when she looks up, they've arrived at a marina, perfect, turquoise water stretching to the horizon. "Killian?"

"Humor me, love."

She's already come this far, so when he shoulders her bag and holds out his hand, she slips her fingers into his. Gravel crunches under her sandals until they reach the dock, the weathered wood leading them to a pristine sailboat. And then she remembers that Liam taught Killian to sail, that he sent her photos of the boat in San Diego, though it was nothing like the one here, now.

He climbs aboard easily with her bag, turning back to help her as the boat sways. "I swear, I will answer all of your questions, but I'd like to make the tide." He glances around at the busy marina, ducking his head, and Emma couldn't agree more about removing themselves from prying eyes.

She follows him below deck, swallowing her shock at the gorgeous interior. Everything is neat and tidy, and as she takes in the space, well-stocked. They could live on this boat for weeks, she realizes, and some part of her desperately wants to disappear with Killian over the horizon. They could fall off the edge of the world together, visiting all the islands that don't exist on most maps, skirting customs and passports and responsibility to anyone but themselves.

He hesitates at the door to the cabin, a large bed occupying the majority of the space, but he doesn't immediately say anything as he sets her bag down and rubs the back of his neck with a small smile. "I'll prepare to get underway, if you'd like to change. There's plenty to drink in the fridge, so help yourself." He strips off his shirt before he goes, tossing it on the bed with a wink, as though the small, melancholy moment never existed.

Emma glances down at the jeans she wore on the plane, the denim sticking to her skin in the heat. Is this why he brought her down here? To tempt both of them beyond reason with skimpy bathing suits and close quarters? She closes her eyes, promises herself she will bring up the actress when she goes above deck, and then changes into a red bikini she definitely did not buy just for the trip – she _didn't_ stand under the harsh florescent light in that dressing room, close her eyes, and imagine the expression on his face when he saw the bright red against her pale skin.

She lingers below, slathering on sunscreen to protect her from the brutal sun, delaying the inevitable – delaying the moment he looks at her like _that_ , and she knows she can't have him because she is so many things, but not a homewrecker. Killian is already sporting a rich, deep tan and she wonders how long he's been here already. She knows the band isn't on tour right now, so perhaps he's turned the whole thing into a well-deserved vacation.

But why is he alone? Or has he not been alone? Is the boat so well stocked because _she_ was here, and Emma is an intruder in their romantic vacation?

Shoving the question aside for the moment, she grabs two beers, pops them open, and makes her way above. Killian catches sight of her as she emerges, and he doesn't bother hiding his stare.

At least this time, she isn't covered in bruises.

His throat bobs with the force of his swallow, and he drinks deeply from the beer she hands him. He starts to say something, her name a whisper on the wind, but then he shakes his head and gestures to the sails. "Bit of help, love?"

It's nice, in a way, working together to move the boat out of the slip and into the harbor, and eventually the sea beyond. She doesn't ask where they're going, and when Killian offers to show her how to steer, she knows it's only half about teaching her.

Because once she agrees, she finds herself between the wheel and his chest, his arms banded around her and his mouth close to her ear, exposed to his lips by the messy braid she twisted her hair into. And she shouldn't lean back into him, she shouldn't sway with him as the waves rock the boat, and she definitely shouldn't sigh as he kisses her shoulder, but she does.

It's only when he starts to spin her around, his intentions clear, that she dredges up the last of her willpower and puts her hand on his chest to stop him. "We can't."

"Why not?" His brows furrow, but it's the flash of hurt that cuts her to the bone.

"A lot of reasons." She takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and forces herself to look him in the eye. "Your girlfriend is pretty high on the list."

She doesn't expect the smile, his eyes crinkling and a dimple appearing on his cheek. "Belle isn't my girlfriend," he says softly, his hands dropping to her waist. "No need to be jealous." He smiles like he sees through her, like he's _happy_ she's been keeping tabs on him, like he's _happy_ she's lain awake at night, her heart splintering because of her inability to stop caring for him.

And suddenly, she's angry, because he's teasing her, and he's lying, and how stupid does he think she is? She shoves his hands away, but there's nowhere to go with him in front of her and the wheelat her back. "Take me to shore. I'll find a hotel for the night. Book me on that flight tomorrow."

"Emma, I'm serious." The grin falls off his face, and he reaches for her, and this time she lets him, because she's always been weak when it comes to Killian Jones. Her skin is slippery with sunscreen and sweat as he curls his fingers around her waist, and it's all she can do not to say the hell with it then and there. "Her manager approached mine. It's...not real. We've become friends, but she's not you. I don't love her."

It's the first time he's said it, and he hasn't quite, hasn't strung together the three words all in a row, but he might as well have the way his admission knocks the air out of her lungs. "You don't mean that," she whispers, his hand a brand on her skin, scalding and burning and marking her. "You _can't_ mean that."

His lips curve up again, but this time, it's that sad smile she's seen so many times before, and she knows in her heart he means it, has meant it, for a very long time. But he doesn't say that, because he knows her, and saying it will just hurt them both even more when this small, precious slice of time is up.

"Do you still want to go back to shore?" he asks eventually, his free hand snaking around her to adjust the wheel. His eyes are on the horizon again, and whatever has shifted between them, the topic is no longer open for discussion. Emma shakes her head, and they resume the sailing lesson that isn't a lesson until Killian drops the anchor and leads her to the bow.

He tugs her down, stretching out on the smooth deck, the surface warmed by the day. "When the sun sets, the view of the stars will rival your mountains," he promises, gesturing to the wide expanse of sky above them, the sun low on the western horizon. "Have you ever seen a sunset at sea?"

"Yes," she answers automatically, but she doesn't say the rest – that the sunsets she's seen have been from aircraft carriers and destroyers, not from romantic sailboats in the Caribbean Sea. That those sunsets have been fractions of moments snatched along the way, a beautiful tableau in the midst of the world's ugliness.

If he senses the shift in her mood, he doesn't say anything, and slowly, Emma relaxes, truly relaxes, for the first time in a very long time. She has no reason to be on her guard out here, no enemy to track or asset to manage. The guilt that has been consuming her since she got Killian's email melts away, because there is nothing tawdry about their trip anymore, nothing to stop them from taking full advantage of the momentary reprieve.

She hears the rustle of his shorts as he moves, the waning sun blocked by his shadow as he rolls onto his side. She doesn't understand his hesitance when he reaches for her, doesn't understand the gentleness of his kiss – doesn't want to. Instead, she tugs him closer, sighing with pleasure as her thighs cradle his hips, his weight settling over her as the kiss deepens. The sultry air covers them both in a fine sheen of sweat, damp skin sliding against damp skin, but Killian doesn't seem to be in any rush despite the hard ridge pressing between her legs.

In fact, when she moves for his shorts, he laughs, a low, teasing noise that sends shivers down her spine as he clasps their fingers together and gently presses her hands to her sides. "We've waited a year for this. Longer. No need to rush." He nuzzles closer, his breath washing over her throat. "I enjoy kissing you."

"I didn't say you had to stop kissing me." She rolls her hips into his, and he stares at her, his eyes dark but his smile relaxed, happy.

"Minx." He nips at her throat, and Emma laughs, _really_ laughs, and maybe they can do this. Once a year, just the two of them, no missions or bandmates or anything else in the way. The other fifty-one weeks will be hard, but they're already hard. She already misses him, no matter how deep in her mind she locks up the box with his name on it.

He bends to kiss her once more, and it's a hell of a kiss, his tongue and lips and teeth assaulting her senses, his fingers tight against hers, the rock of his hips, all of it slowly drives her insane. She's panting when he pulls back, wearing a devilish grin as he drops a final kiss on the tip of her nose. "The sun is about to set."

Emma starts to say she doesn't care, that the sun will also set tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after, and she can watch the damned sunset anytime she pleases. But the glint in his eyes stops her, and she takes a deep breath to settle her body. For some reason, this sunset is important to him, and so she snuggles into his side and watches as the fading sun paints the sky in brilliant pinks and oranges.

They eat fruit and cheese and crusty bread as night crawls from the eastern horizon, a deep, inky sky advancing to swallow the day. And when it's full dark, he draws her back into his arms and she's eighteen again, and for a few precious days, Killian and the stars and the sea are her entire world. She remaps the dip of his hip, the hard plane of muscle across his chest, the dimples at the small of his back with her hands, her tongue, her teeth, and he finds her new scars, kisses them, and leaves a few marks of his own. She remembers what it is to fall asleep with his heartbeat in her ear, to wake to a pair of hungry blue eyes, _always_ hungry for more, more, more.

And for those precious days with no one but the gulls and the fish and the endless turquoise waters to bear witness, she gives it to him. He is a tidal wave crashing into her, obliterating everything and everyone else from her mind, and if they could live forever on the crystal clear sea, never go back to DC or Los Angeles or transports or tours, if that were a _real_ choice, she would snatch it up in a heartbeat.

She almost says so, her heart full and her body cooling in the humid breeze as she lays in a breathless heap with Killian on the deck, the stars brilliant above them in the absence of the moon. He has one arm folded, pillowing his head, and the other slung around her, his fingers lazily toying with her sun-kissed hair, his eyes closed as he breathes deeply. Tension has begun to creep back into him, her pending departure the day after tomorrow hanging over them both, but in that moment, he is boneless beside her, their legs still tangled together and her cheek resting on his chest. And as she listens to his heartbeat gradually slow with his breaths, she wants to ask him to run away with her, to be utterly and completely selfish – because she knows he would if she asks. He would leave it all behind – his brother, the band, the entire life he's built – for her. And for a moment, the waves slapping the hull and Killian humming a tune that she suspects will one day be a song about her, a song that will break her heart all over again, she wants to leave her life behind, too.

But even tidal waves recede eventually.

"We don't have to wait for next year, you know," he says at the airport, brushing his knuckles against her sun-kissed cheek. "You must have other days off. I can always come to you."

"My schedule is unpredictable at best," she reminds him, reminds herself, because she can still taste him on her tongue and smell him on her skin, and it's become very hard these last few days to remember why she only sees him once a year.

"I don't care. I'll make it work."

"Killian…" She sighs, brushing her lips against his cheek and stepping back, her throat tight. "You know I can't. All it would take is one photo of us together and…" She shakes her head, the chilling truth stopping her where nothing else has, because it's harder than it's ever been to remember all the reasons this was never supposed to keep happening. "My life depends on my covers. I need to be no one for that to work."

He blanches as though she's slapped him, and _this_ is why they shouldn't even be here. Her world and his don't work outside of the bubbles they've created in seaside apartments and hotel rooms and sailboats.

And she still isn't one for tearful goodbyes, so she closes her eyes, kisses him one last time and walks away – but when she tastes salt on her lips, she isn't sure if it's her tears or his.


	4. Chapter 4

**June 19, 2010**

Emma gets hit by a bullet during a shoot out, barely surviving an ambush that takes out another agent. She passes out in a dusty street, the roar of chopper blades in the distance her only prayer of making it out of there alive. Thankfully, she wakes up in a hospital bed, instantly recognizing the German military base she's been stitched up in before.

It takes a minute longer to recognize the slumped figure asleep in a chair beside her bed, and it can't be him, but yet... "Killian?" she croaks, her throat raw as she struggles to swallow. The room spins when she tries to sit up, her side exploding with pain.

He stirs, slowly at first, but then his eyes snap open and focus on her. "Thank god," he whispers, hoarse but relieved as he rubs at his bloodshot eyes. "Bloody hell did you give me a scare, love."

"What are you...how?"

"Apparently I'm your emergency contact." He raises a brow, reaching for a pitcher of water and bringing her a cup he helps her drink, and there's an odd sort of hope in his eyes despite their dismal circumstances. "Did you...why me? Why not your parents?"

"I haven't read them in." Emma tried to tell them, but she hasn't ever found the right words, and as the years slipped away, it's been easier and easier to hide the truth. Her cover in DC is a job at a non-profit whose goal is to bring clean drinking water to remote, far flung places, and she uses that as an excuse for her frequent absences. "Did...are they here?"

"No." He frowns, but his touch is gentle as he helps her to finish the water. "I nearly called your mother, but...I realized you must have had your reasons for not wanting them notified. I had to respect your wishes."

"Thank you. This would be a really shitty way for them to find out." She winces, struggling to find a more comfortable position and offering a weak smile. "Good thing I already have that leave scheduled. Looks like I'm going to need it."

He doesn't smile. If anything, his expression turns graver, and there's a long pause before he says, "Today is the nineteenth."

"What?"

His eyes are glassy when he looks at her, deep shadows under them, and it hits her just how exhausted he is, his clothes wrinkled and beard ragged. "You...you've been here for almost two weeks. There was a complication with the surgery you needed to remove the bullet, and the bloody doctors weren't sure if you were going to wake up." The last part is choked, his hands clenching into fists at his sides, and she can see the battle for control in him, see him struggle with it.

"You've been here this whole time?" she asks even though she knows he has, knows without having to be told that he's been in that chair from the moment he arrived. That he dropped everything to be at her side, and what the hell are they even doing anymore? These are the calls she didn't want for him, the worry, the fear, the agony in his eyes.

She forgot she put him as her emergency contact, forgot that in a moment of impulse, she thought about who she would want at her side if it all went to shit, and all she could see was Killian standing in a sixth floor walkup doorway, hope bright in his eyes.

"Aye."

"The band?"

"Sod the band." He's angry now, snapping and snarling, and defiant, as though he's gone along with her stupid idea long enough and now he's _done_.

"Killian–"

"I love you, Emma," he says before she can get another word out, and it should be tender, and it should be soft, but it's hard, and it's vicious, and it's an oath she never wanted him to take. "I love you, and I've sat here for two bloody weeks praying to any god who would listen that you would wake up." One tear, then another spills down his cheeks, and he brushes them away roughly, picking up her hand and pressing a gentle kiss to her palm as though he hasn't just shattered her carefully constructed house of cards. "I realize I'm not supposed to say it, that I'm breaking some bloody rule you've insisted upon, but I told you years ago I wasn't going anywhere, and it's time you accept I mean it."

She's speechless, a roaring conflict of emotion brewing inside her. She accepted that she loves him under a Caribbean sky sprinkled with stars, but she never said it, never told him. It wouldn't do either of them any good for her to say it – it doesn't change anything. "I…" She stops, not knowing what to tell him or how to explain the riot within her. "I'm not quitting just because I got hurt," she finally settles on, steeling herself for his anger, his frustration. "No matter how I feel about you," she adds, because she won't say it, won't make it that much harder for him to accept her decision, but he has to know what he means to her.

"I know," he says, surprising her with a rueful smile and another kiss on her knuckles. "But I've just got you back, love, and I don't intend to leave your side until I must."

"I can't give you the life you want."

"I'll wait."

"Until the next time you get a call from a hospital halfway around the world?" She doesn't mean to be harsh, but the question slips out anyway, her desperation to keep him at arm's length growing. It's harder to walk away every time, and a week is bad enough. With likely months of recovery ahead of her, she's terrified of what that much time together might mean for them, for her. Because she will go back into the field, and she will leave him behind. Again.

"Robin's wife just gave birth, so the band is taking a break right now," he goes on, the only sign he's heard her question the pallor of his cheeks. "Do you wish to return to DC? I have a flat in London now, or we could rent a place for the summer in the mountains where you can get your strength back."

"One week," she forces herself to say, blinking back tears. "That's our deal. One week, and then you have to go home."

"You can't be serious." He stares at her, a mixture of anger and disbelief turning his eyes stormy. "I don't believe you want that. Not after you...not now. Bloody hell, Emma, have you heard a single thing I've said?"

"Nothing has changed," she reminds him, hating that it's come to this, hating that she didn't untangle herself from him years ago when it would have been a clean break. Now it's messy, and she's breaking his heart and hers all at once. "It will only make it harder for us if you...if we...it would be too hard. I can't give you what you want. I've told you that from the start, and every year we do this…I'm selfish, I know I am, especially when it comes to you, but I can't...we spend three months together, and you'll start to hope, and I'll wonder if maybe...and then it will all come crashing down around us when I go back into the field. You know I'm right."

He stares at her, his jaw clenched, a muscle jumping wildly as he presses his lips into a bloodless hard line. They're both stubborn, but he won't force her, he would _never_ force her, and after a long, tense silence, he scrubs his palms over his face and mumbles something about going to fetch a coffee.

They spend the majority of the week arguing about it, but in the end, he gets on a plane and Emma cries until she's certain she doesn't have another tear left.

And then she cries some more.

 **June 19, 2011**

She pushes herself through her physical therapy, training harder than she's ever trained in her life to get back into shape for fieldwork. It's a good distraction, and if she tries hard enough, it almost makes her forget the look on Killian's face right before he walked away from her.

It's what she wants, she tells herself as the weeks slip into months without a word. The last thing he said to her was that he would wait, and he meant it, but she broke something between them when she refused to let him stay, and she knows it.

But just like that, it's June again, and Emma is on a plane back from a successful intel gathering mission, watching a storm in the distance, when she finally admits to herself how desperately she misses Killian.

She's been trying to ignore it, the hollow feeling she's been carrying around for months. The job doesn't have the same allure it once did; she doesn't come home satisfied when things go well. She comes home, and she wonders where Killian is, and if he misses her the way she misses him. She comes home and she wonders not where she'll be sent next, but where they'll spend their week this year.

Except the days fall away, one by one, and there is no email, no plane ticket, no text. They haven't spoken since that day in Germany, and maybe it's naive of her to think things can go back to the way they were, but she checks her email, and she hopes.

The woman who jumps out of planes into war zones is too afraid to pick up the phone and call him herself, because somewhere along the way Killian Jones became far more dangerous than getting shot out of the air.

The nineteenth dawns a cool, rainy day. Emma hasn't slept, her phone beside her as she watches rain slide down the windowpanes, the hollowness inside her slowly transforming into a gaping chasm of loneliness.

It's midday when she makes her decision, and in the end, it's the easiest thing she's ever done. It's been coming for a long time, her doubts and fears and hesitations that she's struggled to ignore no longer willing to be locked away. Her heart isn't in the job anymore, because it hasn't been hers to give for a long time – not since she gave it to Killian on a warm summer night strewn with stars.

She makes the necessary calls, and within an hour, there's someone at her door to collect her credentials and present her with a mountain of forms to sign. It's only once it's all over that she picks up the phone and dials a number she never thought she'd use.

To say Liam is stunned to hear from her is an understatement, and there's an edge in his voice when she asks about Killian. She deserves that and a lot more, but in the end he gives her an address in Maine, another town clinging to the coast a dozen miles north of Storybrooke.

"As far as I'm aware, he intends to spend the summer there. The band begins a rather lengthy tour in the fall." Liam pauses, and the silence is heavy, but it still hits her harder than many a blow she's taken over the years when he says, "You've done a number on him over the years, Emma. I'm only telling you where he is because I know it's what he wants, even after everything you've put him through. He comes back a little bit worse every time, and last year…" Liam stops, his breath heavy over the line, and she can practically hear him gritting his teeth. "Last year, I wasn't certain he would recover from whatever happened between you. You haven't any idea what it's like to watch him fall apart year after year."

Tears sting her eyes, and when he pauses again to breathe, she tries to explain herself. "I never meant–"

"Don't," he cuts in coldly. "Don't attempt to justify yourself to me. Killian is the one you owe an explanation to, but listen to me when I say you bloody well better mean it this time. If you don't, you haven't any business going to him. Stop being so selfish and put him first for once in your life, or let him go."

Liam hangs up on her, and she deserves that too.

Not bothering to wipe away the tears she can't seem to control, Emma shoves everything she cares to take into two bags and starts driving north. It's a long drive, and she's somewhere in New Hampshire when she has to pull over because her hands are shaking too badly. It's after midnight. The nineteenth has come and gone, and Killian didn't call. Perhaps he's finally listened to her and stopped waiting.

But his brother gave her the address, and no matter how angry Liam is over her past with Killian, surely he wouldn't send her all the way up there only to find Killian with someone else, would he? She hasn't seen photos of him with a woman for months, not even the actress.

Unless Liam intends to teach her a very cruel lesson.

Emma gets back in the car, pushed forward by the burning need to know what waits for her at the end of the map. The familiar signs for Storybrooke come and go, and Emma adds that on to the pile of guilt she packed along with her clothes. It's been over a year since she's seen her parents, too, but she's at least talked to them on the phone.

Eventually, she runs out of road, following a long dirt driveway to a cozy cottage perched on the rocks above the sea. Dawn isn't far off, and fog hangs heavy between the trees, the overnight rain clinging to the evergreens and mingling with the brine of the ocean. It smells like home, and for someone who never really thought of any place as home, it's a bittersweet blow. She can hear the crash of the waves as she gets out of the car, the house dark, but a shadow moves on the porch, and she stares in wonder as Killian stumbles to his feet, a plaid blanket wrapped around his shoulders, the blues and greens muted in the gloom.

Taking a deep breath, she crosses the driveway, her boots sinking into the squelching mud until she slowly climbs the stairs. He blinks at her as though she's a ghost or a dream, his jaw covered in a scraggly, unkempt beard, his hair too long. She moves to brush it out of his eyes, and it snaps whatever spell kept him still, his arms coming around her only seconds before his mouth is on hers.

He isn't gentle, and Emma doesn't want him to be. She needs the hard pressure of his mouth and the scrape of his teeth, his bruising grip on her hip, to ground her, to make this real and not a hallucination brought on by exhaustion and regret. She presses herself as close as she can, her own fingers desperately clutching at the flimsy collar of his shirt.

They break apart panting, and Killian leans his forehead against hers, one hand cradling her head as his fingers work their way into her hair, all of his hard edges softening with palpable relief. "Liam...he said you asked where to find me. I didn't think you'd come."

He doesn't say the rest – that he didn't think she would come, but he spent the night on the porch anyway, waiting, watching the mist and listening to the waves, wondering if she would appear. That he kissed her before he spoke, because even now, his voice breaks and his grip is just a little too tight.

"It's our week," she says, because it's the simplest explanation she has. There will be time, later, for the long story, for the explanation she's owned him for almost ten years, but right now all she wants is to breathe him in with the luxury of knowing there is no expiration date looming over this visit.

"Aye." Emma is stunned at the pain packed into a word, sorrow thick in the single syllable as he straightens with a slight shake of his head. "Afraid it's not sailing weather."

She realizes it then, that he doesn't understand, that he thinks she's only come for the week. "I quit," she whispers, tightening her hold on his shoulders when he tries to back away. "I quit, because every time I got on a plane that didn't lead to you, my heart hurt. And I don't want just a day, or a week. I never have. It just took me awhile to figure that out."

"You quit?" he repeats as though he can't believe what he's heard, suddenly very, very still as his gaze holds hers captive. Even the birds seem to have gone quiet, the rush of the waves the only sound in the gray morning light.

"I quit," she repeats. "I love you too much to keep walking away, to keep hurting you." Her exhale is shaky, and she's never felt so exposed in her life as she presses closer, her lips inches from his. "So if you want, I'd really like to stay here for the summer, or however long you're staying."

It's impossible to tell if she's the one trembling or if he is, but it doesn't really matter in the end. He nods, a choked _of course I bloody want you to stay_ breathed against her hair as his arms once again surround her. They stand on the porch for a long time, clinging to each other until exhaustion catches up and he leads her inside.

The cottage is light and airy, even in the muted light of a new day. Pale blue paint adorns the walls, and she glimpses white cabinets in a kitchen as they pass, climbing a beautifully carved staircase. His bedroom is at the end of a short hall, curtains open to reveal a breathtaking view of the churning ocean between the curling tendrils of mist.

He shrugs the blanket free from his shoulders, tossing it onto a bench at the foot of the bed. It's neatly made, a soft gray quilt that reminds her of the fog clinging to the trees spread over the mattress, and a mound of pillows against the headboard. "How did you find this place?" she asks in wonder, running her fingers over the soft fabrics and the carved headboard.

"I own it."

He's watching her when she jerks her head up. "What?" She swallows, glancing out at the sea again. "How? _When_?"

"The band, as you are likely aware, has been a rather profitable endeavor." He joins her by the windows, his eyes on the sea. "As to when…" He laces his fingers with hers, breathing slowly. "I've always seen Maine as home, love. It's where I met you, and that changed everything. So when the money started coming in, the first thing I did was look for a place that one day might be ours." He chuckles, his grip tightening. "Aye, truth be told, the second thing. The first thing I did was purchase Liam a new truck."

"I have pretty fond memories of the old one," she says quietly, leaning her cheek on his shoulder. He untangles their fingers in response, his arm rising to tuck her into his side, pressing a kiss to her hair.

They linger by the windows, but Emma has been awake for two days, and maybe she's gotten used to that, but exhaustion slams into her all the same. When she yawns, Killian nudges her toward the bed, stripping off his shirt and holding it out to her. It's warm from his body, and as he moves around the room, drawing the curtains shut and lowering shades, Emma trades her clothes for his.

After all those hours in the car, his bed is heaven, and she sinks into the pillows with a quiet groan. Killian joins her a moment later, and she has just enough energy to snuggle into his arms before falling into a deep sleep.

 **June 19, 2012**

She isn't surprised to learn that when the tour was scheduled, before she'd turned up at his door, Killian still arranged for it to wrap by mid-June. "I was going to give you last year," he explains when they go over the schedule, and her throat tightens as she realizes what he's done. "I thought the time alone would help you make a decision."

"You were right," she chokes out, reaching for his hand and squeezing hard.

"I usually am."

They land at the Bar Harbor airport on the seventeenth of June after more planes than Emma wants to think about. Killian tried to warn her about the exhaustion that came with touring, but she hadn't wanted to give up a moment by his side. Besides, she was used to operating on very little sleep, living out of a suitcase, and truth be told, it's a different kind of exhausting, but she has Killian. Though it's the middle of the night when they finally arrive back in Maine, Emma wouldn't change a thing.

Last summer was good for them, those months alone with the ocean for company as they worked through what it meant to be together, truly together. A part of Emma had been afraid of the simple domesticity of it all, afraid she would grow restless after years of living on the edge, but to her great surprise, she loves their life together. It was good to breathe, to slowly let go of her old life and embrace this new one, where thinking of Killian doesn't bring an avalanche of sorrow and regret crashing down on her.

This summer is different. The band is set to record their new album after a month long break, and so Killian and Emma will return to LA by the beginning of August. But that leaves six glorious weeks ahead of them to spend time with each other and visit her parents – to lay on the deck of his sailboat with the stars strewn across the inky night high above them.

It's two in the morning on the nineteenth of June when Emma floats toward waking as Killian slips out of bed. She reaches for him, still half-asleep, her dreams not quite prepared to let her go. With a mumble that she thinks manages to be a question, Emma tangles her fingers in his.

"Just getting a glass of water, love. Go back to sleep." His lips brush her forehead, and Emma sighs, shifting across the bed to claim his pillow. She buries her nose in the scent of him and is back asleep before he's reached the top of the stairs.

It's dark when she wakes again, but Killian is sitting on the edge of the bed, a bundle of clothing in his hand. "I want to show you something," he says softly, lifting her left hand and kissing along her knuckles between her middle and ring finger.

"Now?"

"Humor me, love."

The words stir up an echo within her heart, a sunny marina somewhere in the middle of the Caribbean and the turning point in their relationship – the moment when Emma knew she couldn't lie to herself about her feelings anymore, no matter how little it changed their circumstances.

Her eyes catch his in the dark, and she sees the memory rising up in him too, so despite how warm and comfortable she is, Emma reluctantly drags herself out of bed, slipping into the shorts and sweatshirt he holds out. The sweatshirt is his, and he must have been wearing it, because it's warm already, a small consolation for the lost comfort of the sheets.

She stumbles downstairs, rubbing her eyes and yawning. Killian has only turned on the light over the stove, the kitchen glowing warmly as he presses a mug of hot chocolate into her hands before tugging her onto the back deck.

Yesterday's storm has since passed, a sky full of stars opening up before them over a still-churning sea. The contrast of nature's dual natures is part of what Emma loves about this place, and she doesn't know why Killian is insisting on showing her the same view they've seen countless times over the last year, but she leans her elbows on the railing and breathes in the cool night air. Maybe the Milky Way _is_ just a tad brighter tonight, the humidity gone with the storm.

Killian shuffles closer, his arm around her shoulders. She's awake enough now to sense his nervousness, to notice the slight agitation that has him shifting his weight beside her, the deck boards creaking.

"Killian?"

He sighs, and she doesn't notice at first when he sets the ring on the railing, but the starlight catches the diamond out of the corner of her eye, and she almost chokes on her cocoa when she realizes what's happening.

"Ten years ago, I spent one perfect night under the stars with the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen," he says, his voice thick as he sinks down onto one knee, his hands shaking as he grasps hers. "And ever since then, I've wished for an impossible dream. Some years I got it. Some I didn't. But I told you from the start, I would find us a way." His voice breaks, and it's all Emma can do to let him finish, because she already knows her answer, but she won't ruin this for him.

"The first time I stood on this porch, I saw our life here," he continues, releasing one of her hands to pick up the ring. "I saw everything it could be, everything I'd ever dreamed for us. And I realize it's the middle of the night, but I wanted to do this today, on our day, in this place I dreamed of, and I had a plan, a lovely plan, but when I looked outside and saw the stars tonight, I couldn't wait another bloody moment to ask you to be my wife."

The ring sits on the flat of his palm, shimmering as his hand trembles. Emma can only nod furiously, tears stinging her eyes as Killian slides the ring onto her finger and pulls her into his embrace. When he kisses her, he tastes of chocolate – and the future.


End file.
